It was the kind of movement that usually went unnoticed. A casual shift, her legs folding over one another with practiced ease. But the fabric of her skirt slid higher, baring more than she should have allowed. For a moment, the air between them sharpened—his eyes drawn despite himself, her posture seemingly indifferent. He waited for her to tug it back into place, to restore the barrier between what was shown and what was hidden. She didn’t.
Instead, she continued speaking, as though nothing had changed, though her hand rested idly near the hem, never once tugging it lower. The silence between her words seemed longer, the rhythm of her voice slower, as if she knew exactly where his gaze had fallen. She angled her knee slightly, a subtle tilt that exposed just a fraction more, the kind of gesture too precise to be accidental.
By the time she finally shifted again, the damage was already done. The image of skin, of deliberate exposure, had etched itself into him. She could pretend it was nothing, a casual accident—but the truth was clearer: what stirred him was not the sight itself, but the fact that she had chosen not to hide it. Sometimes, temptation lies not in what is revealed, but in the refusal to cover it.